The Dead Saint (25 page)

General Thornburg, unable to sleep, looked out the dark window onto slumbering Stolac. The long night of reports from his aides left him unsettled. Awad's group had hit pay dirt in small Huskovici. And dirt, he judged, was exactly what it was.

The villagers, interviewed individually, had been eager to talk. Their alarming stories, even allowing for exaggeration, contained too many similarities to be false. At about 1600 hours they heard a loud noise coming in close over the mountains. Afraid they might be under attack, they kept their eyes on the sky. A white plane trimmed in blue and red hurtled through the clouds like a bird with a broken wing. The plane dipped into the tree line, and they couldn't see it any longer. General Thornburg saw the scene in his mind as he stared into the darkness.

The crash echoed across the mountain and the villagers wanted to help. Immediately they sent out their best five men, mountain-born and bred, to make the slow, rough climb through the storm to the site of the crash.

It was the later helicopter the villagers mentioned that drew the general's curiosity. No, his fury. They saw it fly over and land at the crash site. The five Huskovici men were close enough to hear the victims groaning. But suddenly armed Stabilisation Force (SFOR) soldiers stopped them at gunpoint and ordered them to return to the village. They said it was a matter of national security. Later the people of Huskovici heard a blast and saw a cloud of smoke above the treeline where the plane had gone down. The general remembered the exact words Awad shared from the interview report of one villager:
Black smoke rose into the sky like a bad omen.

A bad omen indeed. The general looked at his watch—0200 hours. He turned down the bed covers and began the familiar process of willing himself into a state of sleep, a pre-battle discipline that had served him well in the trenches. He needed to be at his best when he rose in a few hours.

At first dawn a helicopter would take him to the location of the crash described by the five Huskovici men—a site half as far from Mostar as the false one first named. He wanted to examine the site himself. So many inconsistencies in the public reports of the "facts" pointed to pernicious incompetence or to deliberate misrepresentation. And the latter pointed to sabotage. He trusted the Huskovici men's account. Should he be greeted by some gun-happy SFOR soldiers—fake or real—let them just
try
to turn him away! He hadn't become
General
Thornburg by running from a fight.

Afterward, he would go to Huskovici and personally interview the five villagers who'd wanted to help the victims. He knew he intimidated people. Tomorrow was too important to let that happen. He needed the men to feel at ease with him, to feel free to share whatever tumbled into their minds, to feel unafraid. He thought of Marsh, who had a knack for helping people feel comfortable. What a loss! Professionally and personally. He sighed as he thought about his friend's gentle courtesy—a character trait that only a fool would confuse with weakness. He could learn from Marsh and would try to keep him in mind while interviewing the villagers.

It was not his business to interfere with official spins on the death of the president of any country except his own. "But," he muttered aloud in the dark, "it's my business to know the truth."

The first rays of dawn crept through the crack between the curtains in the bedroom window. Lynn oriented herself. Thursday. Day eight, ABC—After Becoming Courier. The calendar of her old world stopped with Tuesday, BEM—Before Elie's Murder. The great divide. She put on her blue silk robe and padded downstairs to make coffee. The aroma greeted her before she reached the kitchen. Viktor had already done it. She accepted the cup he handed her and sipped the strong brew. "Thank you, Rooster," she said genially.

He skipped the preliminaries. "You mentioned my uninvited visit to your hotel room. You deserve an explanation." His eyes met hers steadily. "You and your husband may be in danger."

That woke her up.

"Elias Darwish was trying to discover the identity of a man who calls himself the Patriot. We don't know whether he succeeded or was getting too close. We think the Patriot had him killed. It is imperative that I find the data Darwish left."

Questions swam through Lynn's mind like spawning salmon. Who is
we?
Why is the
we
concerned about someone called the Patriot? She recalled Bubba's email: I have information indicating our friend knew he was in danger.

Where did Bubba get that information? How much did he know? What if he has the data Viktor wants? When could she let him know that it might put him in danger? But she kept her face as blank as an empty canvas. Viktor was likable, but she didn't trust him.

"The Patriot may also have been connected with yesterday's sabotage of President Dimitrovski's plane."

Galen walked into the kitchen and heard the accusation. "What is the evidence?" he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Lynn wanted to cast her call-in vote for a wild conspiracy theory on Viktor's part. But it was just crazy enough to hold more truth than fiction.

"Let me tell you about the Patriot. You both travel the globe. Surely you've noticed an apparent increase in scattered disruptions throughout the world. Europe, South America, the Middle East, Africa, even the United States."

Galen nodded.

"These little eddies of chaos appear unrelated, but they are too well executed for all of them to be coincidences."

Lynn glanced at Galen, remembering their conversations about the same thing.

"The Patriot is present on many fronts. That indicates an access to privileged information, not just from one country but apparently worldwide. This access gives him great power."

"I don't see what this has to do with us," said Galen.

Viktor eyed Lynn. "You have connections around the world, and as a bishop you are above suspicion. A perfect conduit. And that is exactly what makes you suspicious to someone as paranoid as the Patriot."

"That's absurd! Lynn's not a conduit!"

Ouch!

"We suspect that the Patriot has hacked into President Benedict's communication channels. If so, any links he can't monitor are holes in his dike—and the Patriot is a man who plugs holes."

"Again, what does that have to do with us?" asked Galen.

Viktor looked each one of them in the eye for a long moment. Despite everything he'd said that stung Lynn to the core, she managed to hold his gaze. When he spoke, he used a matter-of-fact tone, scary to her because of its authentic ring.

"The Patriot hired me to investigate you." He looked at Lynn. "Why would he consider you a threat unless he suspected a secret connection between you and the President of the United States?"

Galen slammed down his coffee cup. "Get off it, Viktor! Lynn has no connection with President Benedict!"

Lynn regretted Galen's response. She feared his intensity might cast suspicions on himself.

Viktor ignored Galen and gave her a long look. "No connection? Having the same religious affiliation could be viewed as an important one. But whether you actually have a connection does not matter. What matters is whether the Patriot thinks you do."

What have you done, Lynn? You should never have accepted that letter in the limo.

"I investigated you as he requested. Including breaking in to the privacy of your room. I apologize for that. However, my top priority is to remain connected to the Patriot long enough to learn his identity."

Oh, sure, Lynn!

"I reported to him that you are a naïve and harmless bishop and her equally naive and harmless husband." His eyes wrinkled into a smile as he finally included Galen in his level gaze. "As I think about my gun in your hand, Galen, perhaps I made a mistake."

Lynn didn't smile. "Your report is accurate in that we try not to bring harm to anyone—to any sentient being, as the Dalai Lama would say. But we are certainly not
naïve."

"My report diverted him, but I can't guarantee for how long. You will be in harm's way again. Perhaps you already are."

Galen calmly shook his head in dismissal. "The Patriot, as you call him, seems to be going to more trouble than we're worth."

"Hear me, Galen," he said forcefully, his eyes intense. "He is the most dangerous man I know. One of the things that makes him so is his belief that his noble cause justifies ignoble acts."

"He's not alone in that," said Galen.

"Our world is a very small one now. One person can do irreparable damage not just to a part of it but to all of it. If not directly, then through the ripple effects. We must stop the Patriot, and we need Elias Darwish's information to do so. Tell me about Bubba Broussard."

Caught off-guard by his sudden shift, Lynn did a double-take.

"To be frank, I looked at your email addresses and noticed his name and Darwish's. Both are Saints. Were they good friends?" He scrutinized her for a reaction.

She hid behind her well-worn bishop's mask, her mind whirling. Elie would have trusted Bubba. He was the logical link.

Galen came to her rescue. "I assume all the Saints are friends to some degree," he said casually.

"How did you get the medal, Lynn?"

"A Saint who saw one of my TV interviews learned that I was going to Sarajevo and asked me to take it to Mrs. Darwish."

"Who?" He eyed Lynn, seeking facts behind the façade. "How did he get it?"

She stared back. His invasive stare burned her courage to a stub, but she held fast. No reaction. No response.

"It's time for you to leave my wife alone, Machek," said Galen.

"Fair enough."

"You keep talking about
we
must stop the Patriot. Who is the
we?"
Galen asked.

It was Viktor's turn not to respond.

Lynn remembered President Benedict's words in the note:
Start with St. Sava.
I'll try to, Madam President. "You mentioned St. Sava last night. Please tell us what you were talking about."

"It's a long story. Right now we only have time for the conclusion. People have become paranoid about terrorist cells. Despite what you may be tempted to think, St. Sava is not a terrorist organization. It is an ancient secret society based on benevolence."

Right, Lynn! And the CIA stands for Compassionate Idealistic Altruism!

Zeller's alarm woke him to a Mozart minuet at 6:00 a.m. Still obsessed with Galen Peterson's appearances in his life, he did only two things before sitting down with
Mutter:
made a pot of coffee and lit a cigarette. He turned on the computer and began. Details. Always details. The Macedonian President's plane crash might disrupt airline schedules or change Peterson's itinerary. He searched BosnaAir: Skopje to Sarajevo, Friday, 11:00 a.m. Flight still scheduled. It took only a few minutes to tap into the passenger list. So easy. Two Petersons. No changes.

He glanced out the window and saw only a few thin clouds. A good day for flying. Another search provided Vienna-to-Sarajevo flights this afternoon with one at 3:01 p.m. Perfect.

A full flight. Not so perfect. He ran through the passenger list and selected an Arab name. "Terrorist Arabs!" he muttered. With little effort he broke through the firewall, deleted the name, and replaced it with his alias of the day. He printed his e-ticket. It pleased him to think of the Arab showing up with an invalid ticket and officials viewing it as forged because their computers couldn't lie. Thanks,
Mutter.

Zeller took pride in his computer expertise. He had the power to wreak havoc. Tamper with financial records, embezzle funds, spread viruses. But as a man of honor he wouldn't do that. No.

He reexamined his pistol and rifle. He had prepared them with precision. Anticipating tomorrow brought an adrenaline rush. To shoot or not to shoot. That was the question. He was totally prepared for the former. Would thoroughly consider the latter. He patted
Freund
tenderly, his most faithful of friends. His only friend besides
Mutter,
he admitted, requiring noble honesty of himself. He returned the pistol to its case and packed it and his rifle in a large navy duffle bag, worn and unnotable. Having to ship them through always worried him, but he'd never had any trouble. Sometimes he chose to discard the last half of his round-trip ticket and rent a car to return. He preferred to keep control in his own able hands.

He wondered how the few hours in Sarajevo would conclude. Once again he was about to write the final chapter in someone else's story. Unless his thread of luck knotted. Was Peterson worth the risk? No. But privacy and freedom were. He would never live his life on the run. And he would never let them take him. If necessary, his last bullet would be for himself. Again he patted
Freund.
The dance of death had begun.

Lynn heard her cell phone ring and excused herself from Galen and Viktor. Blue slippers flopping, she ran upstairs to the nightstand where she'd left it. The last voice she'd heard on a phone was President Dimitrovski's. Silenced forever. She glanced at the alarm clock. Seven. The search and rescue helicopters would soon be back at work. Dread hung around her like thick fog. "Hello."

"I don't know what time the sun rises in Macedonia, Bishop Lynn. I hope I didn't call too early."

"Bubba!" She'd never been so grateful to hear that deep, reassuring voice! "Not to worry. I've been up a long time." The time difference hit her. "It's midnight there!"

"The night is young." His tone changed; enough banter. "Are you all right?"

She hesitated too long before her habitual, "Always. How are you?"

"Can you talk?"

"Yes." She closed the bedroom door, glad to be free of Viktor's eyes and ears. Bugs came to mind. Now
that
is paranoid! "Are you on a cell phone also?" she asked as a reminder of how easily their conversation could be overheard. She wished she hadn't used his name. She wouldn't do it again. "I am
so sorry
about the jewelry." Tears came to her eyes.

He quoted back what she had emailed to him: "You couldn't have prevented what happened. Don't do that to yourself."

She caught the boomerang. Grace and forgiveness. "Thank you."

"I talked to a guy who likes black horses. He wants to know if you are
sure
who stole it."

"Absolutely!"

"By the way, I learned the Cyrillic alphabet tonight. Now I could recognize the inscription, just like you did."

She wanted to ask him why that was so important. Not on a cell phone. "Good for you."

"I'd sure like to know what the design stands for."

She heard his plea. But again not on a cell phone. "When I return, we'll go to Café du Monde and have a leisurely talk. Did you hear about the President of Macedonia?"

"A little. You know how it is here. If a country isn't big or rich, it's just a minor one."

"He was not a minor man." She silently thanked Bubba for letting go of the symbol's meaning. Aloud she said, "I'm glad you phoned. I'm concerned about you."

"Maybe you should look in the mirror."

"Please hear me, Bubba. A man I have no reason to trust links you to our friend. He suspects that you have some important information and he wants it."

Bubba hesitated a couple of beats. "And if I did?"

"All I know about him for sure is that he's tough enough even unarmed to trounce four men with Uzis. He's downstairs now."

"What kind of crowd are you running with?"

Images scrolled across her mind. The sniper. The nut who planted the bomb in Schönbrunn Palace. Viktor the voyeur. A megalomaniac who had us investigated and may be behind Elie's murder. "Pretend I'm the quarterback and listen a minute. Don't underestimate the danger."

Bubba chuckled. "You've been reading too much Tom Clancy. I can handle it."

His dismissal exasperated her. "They don't play by the rules."

"I can handle that too."

Fear was simply not in his vocabulary. "Aren't the Saints taking a break?"

"For another week. We're taking some time to put ourselves back together after Elie's . . . passing."

"Why don't you get out of New Orleans for a while to be on the safe side?"

"You're sounding like my mother. I didn't call to talk about me. I want to know about you—without a rote response."

She debated her answer and told the truth. "There have been some scary moments." His silence lasted so long she began to think they'd been cut off.

"Where are you staying?" he asked when he finally spoke again.

"In Skopje."

"Where exactly?"

She dreaded answering. "In a safe house."

"A safe house!"

"We leave for Sarajevo tomorrow morning. Maybe things will get back to normal." In Sarajevo? She almost laughed.

"It sounds like you're the one who needs to stay clear of the bad guys!"

"Good guys. Bad guys. All their uniforms look alike. I can't sort them out."

"I'm going to take your advice about getting out of New Orleans."

"That's good news!"

"Those thugs scaring you better back off. An army-of-one is on the way."

"What . . ."

"See you tomorrow in Sarajevo!"